


darling, i can't go (but you may stay)

by burnttongueontea



Series: time, as a symptom [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Adam-turned-them-human AU, Bickering, Crowley's Bentley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, The Bentley Ships It (Good Omens), i just think they'd be happy being human okay! sickeningly happy!, in which i turn out to be a soppy bastard after all, okay maybe some gentle feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-13 10:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21493003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burnttongueontea/pseuds/burnttongueontea
Summary: ‘Tow it?’ snaps Crowley, and clunks the bonnet shut abruptly. ‘TOW it? Nobody tows this car anywhere. It’s an untouched vintage original, infused with ninety years of satanic energies and officially sanctioned by the Antichrist. It is metaphysically resistant to being towed.’(Aziraphale and Crowley, formerly of Heaven and Hell respectively, attempt to holiday while human. Clearly, this will not go wrong.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: time, as a symptom [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1577767
Comments: 21
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of a series imagining how Aziraphale and Crowley’s retirement might have looked, if Adam had decided to make them human when he restored reality. Mostly the fics work as standalones too. They all have soft and gentle endings, but some contain more mortality-related angst than others – so please do check the tags before choosing which ones to read! (This is an altogether fluffy one.)

‘Oi, you,’ says Crowley. ‘Put that thermos back where it came from this instant.’

‘No.’ Aziraphale inspects the surface of a dry-stone wall with trepidation, and then sits gingerly down on it. ‘If I’m going to be stuck by the side of the road for hours, I’m going to have a cup of tea while I do it.’

‘Hours? Who said anything about hours? We’ll be off again in five minutes. You won’t have time to finish it.’ He finally succeeds in getting the Bentley’s bonnet open, and starts flapping his hands gently at the engine, as if to waft air towards it. ‘It’s just cooling down a bit.’

‘Yes, dear,’ says Aziraphale, starting to unscrew the cap.

After he’s finished his second cupful of tea, he says: ‘Perhaps we should call for assistance.’

‘No. Look.’ Crowley stands back from the car for the first time in quite a while, and puts his hands on his hips. ‘I can see what’s wrong with it.’

‘Very good. Are you going to fashion a toolkit out of twigs?’

‘Listen, the AA are no bloody use to us. They don’t know what to do with a car like this.’

‘Well, then, they’ll tow it to someone who does.’

‘Tow it?’ snaps Crowley, and clunks the bonnet shut abruptly. ‘_Tow _it? Nobody tows this car anywhere. It’s an untouched vintage original, infused with ninety years of satanic energies and officially sanctioned by the Antichrist. It is metaphysically resistant to being towed.’

‘Why don’t you sit down for a minute?’

He does, and Aziraphale offers him the thermos.

‘I don’t want that.’

‘Suit yourself.’

*

It’s their honeymoon, although they decided against getting married. Road trip around the country, quiet and peaceful locations only. Their itinerary, devised over _many _weeks of negotiation, comprises six stops.

Currently, they are somewhere in between stops one and two.

They make their way with difficulty over the dry-stone wall and across a field, and knock on the door of the building that Crowley insists is a functional farmhouse, and Aziraphale insists is a converted cottage. (Most importantly of all, it is the nearest inhabited-looking building in the area.)

The door is opened by a tall, dark-haired woman in her forties, holding back a large and overfriendly collie.

‘Can I help you?’ she asks.

‘Ah, yes,’ says Aziraphale. ‘We were just wondering if you might have a telephone number for a good local mechanic – ’

‘No,’ Crowley interrupts. ‘We were just wondering if you had any tools you might be able to lend us. In that shed.’

‘Or a mechanic,’ Aziraphale insists, smiling.

She looks the pair of them over, with pressed lips and an appraising eye.

‘Are you trying to tell me that your car has broken down?’

Her voice is low and steady, and marked by the slightly softened contours of an American accent.

‘Sort of, yeah.’

‘Jeez,’ she says, slowly. ‘All the way out here. Nightmare. Well, it’s not a shed _exactly_, so can’t help with tools, but I can let you use my internet to find a garage.’

‘That’s not – ’

Aziraphale presses his elbow into Crowley’s arm, very slightly.

‘That would be so kind of you,’ he says.

‘Oh, it’s no problem. Come in.’

She leads them through to her living room, which is bright and pleasant in a restrained sort of way, the only concession to excess being a set of overburdened bookshelves in one corner.

Aziraphale and Crowley take a seat next to one another on a small, white couch. The collie trots over, immediately lays its chin on Crowley’s knee, and begins gazing up at him with a look of deep and unwavering devotion. Crowley makes an uncertain noise which might be related to his clean trousers, and then starts scratching its head.

‘Right,’ says their good Samaritan. ‘You two sit there and catch your breath, I’ll find my laptop. Can I get you a drink or anything?’

‘I could do with a coffee,’ says Crowley.

‘No, he couldn’t. Do you have anything herbal? Camomile?’

‘Two cups of camomile tea, coming up.’ Hesitating before she heads for the kitchen, she points at the dog dribbling lovingly onto Crowley. ‘That’s Sappho, by the way.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘And I’m Lou. Yourselves?’

‘Anthony.’

‘Aziraphale.’

This gives her a moment’s pause, head on one side.

‘Oh, that’s a new one on me. Italian?’

‘No,’ he says pleasantly. ‘Biblical.’

‘You wish,’ hisses Crowley, when she’s left the room.

Aziraphale shoots him a dark look. Then hops to his feet, makes his way over to the bookshelves, and starts peering at the rows of spines with his hands behind his back.

‘Eyes front, angel.’

‘I’m just _looking_. She has good taste. Memoirs of the Chevalier d’Éon, you don’t get that in many living rooms.’

‘Do I need to frisk you on the way out?’

‘Can if you like,’ says Aziraphale, so mildly that Crowley doesn’t even catch the double-entendre until Lou is coming back in with two mugs and a Macbook tucked under her arm.

‘Right,’ she says, once the tea has been distributed. Aziraphale sits back down on the couch, while Lou perches on a wicker armchair and opens up the laptop. ‘Total black hole for phone signal round here, sorry. Let’s see what we can do with a little help from Google.’

‘We’re going to need a specialist,’ says Crowley. ‘It’s vintage. 1926 Bentley.’

‘Uh-huh,’ replies Lou thoughtfully, clicking away. ‘What brings you all the way out here, anyway? I’m assuming you’re not local.’

‘W… er… Just a holiday, really.’

‘It’s our honeymoon,’ Aziraphale specifies.

‘Well. Yes. We’re not married, though.’

‘You sure about that?’ she asks, deadpan.

Crowley makes an unusual noise into the mug of tea he had just lifted to his mouth.

‘Okay, I think I have your man.’ Lou leans over to a side table, picks up her landline handset and chucks it gently at Crowley, who reacts with panicked and disproportionate movement of his limbs but still manages to catch it (and only loses a few drops of tea in the process). ‘Martin Bayley,’ she goes on. ‘Runs a place in the village down the road, seems reliable. I’m gonna read out the number, you dial.’

He does as he’s told. Once the call goes through, it’s answered quickly, and soon he’s being questioned in great detail about the breakdown by a patient voice on the other end of the line.

Meanwhile, Lou has started tapping her fingers on the top of her laptop screen, and is frowning slightly.

‘Funny,’ she says. ‘I can’t think of who Aziraphale _is_, in the Bible.’

The former Serpent of Eden, not so absorbed in his conversation as to miss an opportunity, turns to his non-husband with a triumphant grin.

*

After Martin has towed the Bentley to his garage and inspected the engine at great length, he shrugs and pronounces his verdict.

‘Yeah… give me a week, I should be able to get this one going again.’

Of all the words in this sentence, Aziraphale hears only ‘a week’, and Crowley hears only ‘should’. Neither of them look remotely happy.

‘It’s in good condition for its age, that always helps,’ continues Martin, oblivious to the effect he is having on his customers. ‘How many owners has it had?’

‘Just the one,’ says Crowley. And then, after far too long a pause: ‘…before me.’

‘Oh, that’s good news. Tell me, how often do you – ’

He then begins to utter an incomprehensible string of words which make it abundantly clear that Aziraphale will not be able to follow the conversation any longer.

He turns to Lou, who gave them a lift down to the garage in her own car, to find out whether she is the type to be able to appreciate technical talk. Her expression announces that she is not.

‘Sounds like we’re going to have to find somewhere to stay nearby,’ he says resignedly. ‘I don’t suppose, with your local expertise – ’

‘Three steps ahead of you, Bible man. I know the owner of the pub on the high street, they have rooms. Here, let these guys take their time, we can carry your suitcases over.’

*

The Coach and Horses is exactly the kind of inn you would expect to find in this kind of village. ‘This kind of village’ being a curious assortment of lopsided stone cottages and niche little businesses that should by all rights have been strangled by the tourist industry twenty years ago; and ‘this kind of inn’ being a labyrinth of kitsch, dusty rooms that nevertheless feels homely the minute you step into it, the way all good pubs do.

Once a room has been safely booked, and the suitcases safely carried up to it (‘Oh, it’s quite charming really!’), Lou happily accepts the offer of a drink in the bar downstairs. Aziraphale is itching to pick her brains on the topic of the Chevalier d’Éon (although he restrains himself, with regret, from letting on about the time they met).

‘I’ve actually just acquired a rather nice copy of those memoirs. Not original, nineteenth-century re-edition, but it has some plates in it which are not easy to get hold of, and the marginalia is rumoured to come from quite an illustrious hand.’

‘Sounds like a beautiful thing. I’d love to see it.’

‘Well, perhaps you’ll have to pay a visit to my shop some time. Fell’s, in Soho – easy to get to, if you’re ever in town.’

‘A bookseller, eh?’ Lou nods. ‘Should have guessed. Nice trade. I’m a writer myself, actually.’

‘Ah,’ says Aziraphale, not without scepticism. ‘I did wonder why you had so much time on your hands. What sort of thing do you write?’

‘Well, at the minute, about the Chevalier, in fact. New project. But more generally…’

She explains, and Aziraphale’s eyes suddenly become very round indeed.

‘Oh,’ he exclaims. ‘Lou! Lou Galley!’

‘You’ve come across them, then?’

‘More than that, I’ve read them. Really rather lovely, and I don’t often say that about living novelists. Well, isn’t that a stroke of luck?’ He places his glass down on the table, and begins patting himself down with both hands. ‘Now… you don’t happen to have pen and paper on your person, do you? Memory like a sieve these days…’

‘What for?’

‘To remind me to post you that book when I’m back in London, of course.’

‘Oh, that’s a very generous offer, but there’s no need – ’

‘Nonsense, nonsense! I don’t usually do loans, but in this case I owe you a favour, don’t I?’

‘Not even remotely. You bought me a drink. We’re even.’

‘Well then,’ says Aziraphale, smiling solicitously, ‘I suppose you’ll have to find a way to pay me back in future, won’t you?’

*

Crowley’s conversation with Martin doesn’t dry up until the mechanic asks him to wait for a second, disappears into his back office, and returns with a business card in his hand.

‘What’s this?’ asks Crowley, taking the card and peering at it.

‘Old friend of mine. Deals in vintage models like these. If you do end up replacing it, I’d recommend giving him a call – you can mention my name if you like, but he’s reputable, he’ll give you a fair deal anyway.’

Crowley immediately extends his arm to its fullest length, thrusting the business card as far away from his person as possible, as if Martin had just explained that it is infected with the world’s last strain of smallpox.

‘I don’t want another one,’ he says. ‘I want this one to work.’

‘Ah,’ says Martin, grinning. ‘Yeah, I know how that feels.’

‘No. Trust me. You don’t.’

‘Give it a year or two. Something new’ll catch your eye.’

Crowley says nothing, just flaps the card desperately at Martin.

‘Okay. If it makes you feel better.’ He takes the business card back and slips it into a pocket. ‘I get it, you don’t want to jinx it.’

_Too late_, thinks Crowley despairingly.

But he hands over the car keys, anyway. What else is there to do?

Then he goes out into the dusk.

It’s a bit of a crisp evening. He pulls his jacket across his chest, and wishes Aziraphale hadn’t gone on ahead. There’s a negligible amount of phone signal now that they’re in a village, just enough to let him look up directions to the pub that Lou mentioned. You’d think it would be easy to get around a tiny place like this, but he’s so dazed that he takes at least two wrong turns, inadvertently trespasses in somebody’s very poorly fenced-off front garden, and almost puts his foot in a small brook that’s running along the side of one street.

Eventually he finds the place – which wants very much to be a real inn just like they used to be, with a crumbling mock-Tudor frontage and a hand-painted sign. The Coach and Horses. _Very fairy-tale_, he thinks, glancing up at the glowing latticed windows as he approaches the main entrance.

As if on cue, somebody starts the engine of a parked car, and a black cat that had been hiding beneath it takes sudden fright. It comes darting out at speed, hits Crowley clumsily in the legs, then corrects course and vanishes over the nearest wall.

Crowley pauses.

Omens are tricky things. Despite some six thousand years of personal involvement with the occult, he’s never really got the hang of them. They don’t like you to try and look at them directly, prefer to stay in your peripheral vision – just a flash of something, an ill-defined shape, never entirely distinguishable from the sort of ordinary coincidence that might get you to cock up spontaneously. Make any move to pick them apart, and they just melt away, leaving you wondering if anything was even there in the first place. They don’t like interrogation.

So, Crowley isn’t good at omens.

When in doubt, usually, he asks Aziraphale’s opinion. Not so much because he is (was) the only other supernatural being around – it never seemed to make much difference – but because he always takes these things very seriously, and because he has a knack with them. Exactly the knack that Crowley doesn’t.

_Aziraphale_, he imagines asking. _Say a couple are away on their honeymoon and their car packs up and it can’t be fixed. Say their car breaks down in the middle of a conversation about their retirement plans._

_What kind of omen is that, do you think?_

He goes into the warmth of the pub after a moment or two, and in the bar he finds Aziraphale nattering on to their rescuer, who shrugs off any further expressions of gratitude and then takes her leave. Then Crowley sits with Aziraphale, and has a drink with him, and doesn’t ask him any questions, except for whether he thinks the food they’re serving here will be any good.

*

The food, happily, is good. It isn’t late by the time they finish dinner and climb up to their cosy little room under the eaves of the roof. Aziraphale sits on the bed in his pyjamas and flips through some dog-eared tourist leaflets, in search of distractions for the coming week, while Crowley paces the room and orates various thrilling adventures through which the Bentley has come unharmed, to absolutely no heed from his non-husband.

Eventually Aziraphale puts the leaflets down and says,

‘Love of mine.’

‘Yes?’

‘Come here.’

He’s hoping Crowley might take this as a prompt to kiss him, but instead he just crawls onto the bed, flops himself down, and lays his head on Aziraphale’s chest with a despondent sigh.

‘You know, he’s either going to repair it or he isn’t. It’s no use driving yourself mad.’

‘I do know. I do, I do, I do.’

‘Good,’ he replies gently, and then kisses the top of Crowley’s head. ‘Early night, then?’

‘Mm.’

They reshuffle to get under the covers, and then Aziraphale turns out the light.

After half an hour or so, there’s a voice in the darkness.

‘For goodness’ sake, will you stop wriggling so much?’

‘I can’t. Can’t relax, this bed’s not right. It’s too narrow.’

‘Well, scoot a bit closer to me then... Here. Better?’

‘Yes.’


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been four days.

They’ve been to the nearby National Trust property, which was just about reachable on foot. They’ve been to all three of the restaurants in the village. They’ve nosed around the local church (‘Oh hey, I think I once won a bet with the guy buried under the north transept!’), suffered through a slightly windswept picnic, and strolled through both the nearby wildlife reserves. They’ve gone as far as playing card games together in the inn (‘Don’t even _think _about it.’)

Martin has not called to update Crowley on the progress of the repairs.

They’re now sitting in an ice-cream parlour on the village high street. Crowley has the printed honeymoon itinerary out in front of him, a calculating expression on his face, and a pen in his hand. Aziraphale is half-heartedly sipping a black coffee and watching passers-by on the street, with the slightly wan complexion of one who has recently and grievously overestimated the non-angelic body’s capacity to consume dairy.

‘So. I reckon we can fit in three stops, still. Or, if we don’t want to be in a rush, we can just do two.’

‘Well, we can strike Cornwall off the list straight away.’

‘What?’ Crowley looks up in alarm. ‘Why? What’s so wrong with Cornwall all of a sudden?’

‘Nothing really,’ Aziraphale says idly, pressing one hand into his stomach as if to relieve some sort of discomfort. ‘It’s just a little far from London.’

‘Aziraphale. They have a dedicated rude name for Londoners. That’s how close it is.’

‘So you’re keen to live somewhere they have a rude name for us, are you?’

Crowley decides not to remind him that this is, technically, _everywhere_.

‘Hey,’ he says instead. ‘Remember that time you agreed we should move out of London?’

This causes Aziraphale to give Crowley a bemused stare, hand still resting on his middle.

‘…yes?’

‘You did realise that would involve, you know. Actually moving out of London. Didn’t you?’

He narrows his eyes.

‘I haven’t said a word about changing my mind.’

‘You’re not taking it seriously.’

‘And how am I to take it seriously, while we’re stranded in the middle of nowhere?’

‘I’m trying to make a plan with you, and you’re just staring out the window.’

Aziraphale gives an irritated sigh. Then he gets to his feet and starts putting his coat on.

‘I’m not in the mood for this sort of conversation. I need some fresh air.’

‘Yes, good idea,’ says Crowley sourly, scribbling random shapes on the margin of the itinerary. ‘Don’t let me come between you and your stomach.’

He only realises how this is likely to be taken when Aziraphale stops absolutely _dead _still.

Crowley doesn’t raise his eyes from the paper, but guesses that if he did, he would probably get an incredibly accurate impression of the last thing a smiting victim ever sees.

‘Not one word about changing my mind, Crowley. Not one.’

Then he’s gone.

*

When he doesn’t come back after half an hour, Crowley settles the bill and leaves.

Impulsively, he drops the itinerary in a street bin, then swears loudly and has to stop himself from sticking his arm in to get it back out.

_Nice one, Crowley_, he thinks, going into a small park to walk around in circles. _Persuasive bloody stuff. Obviously he’s going to want to pack up his bookshop and abandon all his favourite haunts to hole up in the middle of nowhere with _you_, charming individual that you are._

And where are they going to be able to print off another copy of that flipping itinerary? It’s not like there’s an internet café around here. Not even a library. Maybe he’ll ask at the inn and see if they can help.

What he could do with is getting in the Bentley and going for a nice, long, therapeutic drive.

He kicks a stray can across the path. A little old lady tuts pointedly.

_This whole moving thing was a silly idea in the first place, anyway. Why does a honeymoon need to involve a project? Who does that? Is it because we can’t just sit and eat ice-cream and talk to each other without needing a mission to discuss? Is that it? _

He finds a bench and sits on it. Then changes position so that he’s sprawling on it. And then just lies there.

*

Aziraphale, walking aimlessly down the high street, comes across a familiar-looking collie outside the pharmacy.

‘Hello, Sappho.’ He leans down to pat the dog’s head, but changes his mind quickly when she shows clear signs of intending to lick his hand. Then he frowns through the window of the shop, and goes inside.

‘Is that you, Lou?’

Lou starts slightly, before turning to him. She’s a little more smartly dressed than when they caught her at home, in a crisp white shirt.

‘Aziraphale. Hi.’

‘I say. What are the odds?’

‘Quite short, city-slicker. It’s a _very _small village.’

‘Well, never mind. I still feel lucky.’

She smiles at that. Then he sees her gaze go past him, scanning the shop and the street outside, obviously looking for a missing piece.

_That feels nice_, he thinks.

‘Where’s Anthony?’

‘Finishing his coffee, I suppose. We decided to go separate ways for the afternoon.’

Lou nods.

‘Space. Sensible. Enjoying your stay?’

‘For the most part.’ He means to sound bright and decisive, but it comes out faintly subdued, in a way that makes Lou adopt her appraising expression again.

‘And what are you doing with your free afternoon?’

‘Oh, nothing much. Just popped in here to buy, er… to buy…’ He raises a hand slightly, casts around the shelves to see what he is claiming he came in to buy. ‘Ah.’

On one side of the aisle they are standing in is ladies’ shampoo; on the other, feminine hygiene products.

Lou is smirking, but not unkindly.

‘Do you know, last night I finished drafting the first chapter of that new book I was telling you about?’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes. Actually, if you don’t mind lending your expert eye, you could come up to the house and have a look at it for me. Check my facts.’ She pauses, smirk growing even more pronounced. ‘Since you have so much time on your hands.’

Aziraphale’s hand is still half-raised in the air. He opens and closes it, pointlessly.

‘Really?’

‘Please don’t look so thrilled. It’s a first draft, it’s not pretty.’

‘All the same. I’d be honoured.’

‘Well. Great. Let me pay for this stuff, then we’ll rescue the dog.’

*

Despairing on the bench is only satisfying for about four minutes. (It’s also rather cold.)

So, Crowley gets up.

He goes back to the ice-cream place to see if Aziraphale might be waiting there.

He isn’t.

He goes along to the little antique shop where Aziraphale wasted altogether too much of their time the day before.

‘Hallo, Mr Eastgate!’ says the proprietor, setting his pipe down on the counter. (A pipe. Really. Someone should send him the medical literature.)

‘Er, it’s Mr Crowley, actually,’ says Crowley, deciding not to go into it. ‘Have you seen the actual Mr Eastgate, by any chance?’

‘No, I’m afraid he hasn’t popped in today. Gone astray, has he?’

‘Sort of. Not really. Just trying to catch him up.’

‘Well, I’m sure you’ll manage it. We’re a slow-moving species, on the whole.’

‘I’ve noticed. Thanks, anyway.’

Crowley goes back out onto the street. There’s not much more to try, from here. He still hasn’t won his not-husband over on the ‘necessities of a mobile phone when leading life as an idiotic and entirely destructible human’ debate. Anyway, if Aziraphale wanted to speak to him, he’d be here, wouldn’t he?

Crowley will just have to find some way to entertain himself, then.

He should make the most of it, and do something he couldn’t do with the ex-angel in tow. There must be _some _sort of shady business going on somewhere, even out here. If anyone can find it, it’s Crowley. He’ll have some fun.

*

Lou and Aziraphale follow the A-road out of town together, discussing the various sights that he and Crowley have seen in the past few days. When the pavement ends, they continue on the grassy verge that runs by the side of the road, Lou keeping close hold of Sappho’s lead.

‘Sorry to come back to this,’ she says eventually, ‘but I’ve been Googling away and I just can’t figure out who Aziraphale is supposed to be, in the Bible. Is it a variant of some kind?’

After a few moments, he asks:

‘Are you religious?’

‘No, not really. Just… burdened with a _lot _of religious knowledge. And a completionist brain.’

He nods.

‘Aziraphale was an angel,’ he tells her, slowly. ‘One of the principalities. Also known as the Angel of the Eastern Gate. He gave his divine sword to Adam and Eve, chose to live on Earth rather than in Heaven, and was eventually separated from the Host.’

‘Jesus _Christ_. Sounds like your parents were even bigger nutters than mine. What the Hell bit of obscure scripture is that?’

‘He isn’t,’ says Aziraphale, ‘written about anywhere.’

She looks at him sideways.

‘And you never wanted to change it?’

‘Why would I?’

‘I don’t know. Mouthful. You still believe in God?’

‘Oh, yes.’

They walk in silence for a few moments, shift closer to the hedgerow slightly as an enormous, gleaming four-by-four comes roaring past. Sappho cleaves obediently to Lou’s calves, clearly accustomed to walking near the traffic.

‘Sorry,’ says Lou, when the noise has passed. ‘I ask too many questions, I know.’

‘Not at all,’ says Aziraphale, with a smile. ‘Habit of a good writer.’

*

‘What on Earth is _that_?’ asks Crowley.

‘I thought you said Fleming,’ says the shop assistant, a short woman in a forest-green fleece.

‘I did say Fleming. I meant Bond, not Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang.’

She shrugs apologetically.

‘I’m sorry, I think this is the only Fleming we have. We might have some other spy novels on the crime and thriller shelf.’

‘On the… on _the _crime and thriller shelf? Singular? One shelf?’

‘Yes.’

‘What kind of place is this?’

‘A bookshop.’

Crowley almost throws himself on the floor.

‘Yes, I got that, thanks. What I’m saying is, a man walks into a bookshop, he expects to be able to buy a James Bond novel. Or – or – or any other reasonably well-known novel he might ask for. Because it’s a bookshop.’

‘Are you visiting us from London, sir?’

He folds his arms.

‘Possibly!’

‘Well, give me a minute to put this one back and I’m sure we can find you something you’ll like.’

‘No,’ he snaps, reaching for his wallet. ‘I want to buy the book about the magic car.’

*

After leaving the bookshop, Crowley wanders over to Martin’s garage, and lurks surreptitiously out the front for a while. Martin is working on some other vehicle, hopefully too busy to turn around and spot that he’s being watched. The Bentley is still there. Crowley can just about see it behind a narrow window, different flashes and fragments depending where he stands: a wing mirror, a headlight, a section of wheel.

He wanders back into the centre of town and keeps a chair warm in the ice-cream parlour, ordering more coffees and reading Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang until someone comes and politely tells him they’re closing at four-thirty.

Then he walks very quickly up and down the high street for some time, wishing he’d stopped a bit sooner with the coffees.

He buys himself a portion of fish and chips, in the hope that they might soak up the caffeine somehow. Can’t quite finish the whole lot, and then gets a horrible sense of misery when he has to throw the last few chips in the bin, unwanted. After that, he goes to the pub, and finds himself a nice squishy armchair to finish the book in.

The ridiculous thing is, the pub is the inn where they’re staying. It’s that kind of village. He just picks a chair in a hidden-away corner, and hopes his non-husband doesn’t have the same idea about where to come and nurse his feelings.

When he gets to the end of the book, he stares at one of the paintings on the wall while finishing his lime soda.

The painting is a shire horse pulling a carriage, themed to vaguely match the name of the pub. Crowley remembers travelling by stagecoach. He even seems to have a memory of being on one with Aziraphale, once, but he can’t remember why or when. He’ll have to ask Aziraphale if he remembers anything, although most likely he doesn’t. Most likely, the story’s simply lost.

_Ask the landlord_, he imagines saying to the woman at the bar, _are there any fresh horses in the stables? Mine’s knackered._

It’s after eight o’clock; Aziraphale must be back in their room by now, since there’s nowhere else to go at this time of day. Crowley should go upstairs and find him.

_Forget it, _he imagines saying. _Let’s not move. The car’s broken down, it’s got to be a bad sign. I was only joking, anyway. Nice of you to go along with it for so long. I’ll move in above the bookshop instead. I’ll get old in Soho, I don’t care. Just so long as nothing changes._

He ascends the creaking stairs quite slowly, not sure whether he’s going to find the ex-angel open to conciliatory gestures, or simply waiting to fix him with a divinely cold stare.

What he finds is Aziraphale fast asleep in an armchair, reading glasses askew and drifting somewhere halfway down his nose.

He stirs when Crowley takes the book out of his hand, carefully keeping track of the place that his finger still had marked out.

‘Evening, Granddad.’

‘What time is it?’ he asks, taking the glasses off and rubbing his eyes.

‘Not late enough. You alright?’

‘Yes. Bumped into Lou. Quite the whiskey collector, it turns out.’

‘I see.’ Crowley dumps himself into the opposite armchair and puts his feet on the coffee table. ‘Nice day for you, then?’

‘I don’t know. Not properly. What did you do?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’ He fishes in the plastic bag he’s been carrying and holds up his Fleming. ‘Been reading this. Can you believe they didn’t have a single Bond novel in the local bookshop?’

‘Oddly, yes I can.’ Aziraphale puts his glasses back on and leans forward in order to see the cover, and smiles slightly at the drawing of the old automobile. Then falls backwards into the chair again, and sighs. ‘Crowley. We can go to Cornwall, if you want.’

‘No, you were right, it’s not worth the bother. All tourists, no motorway.’

‘As you wish.’ He pauses. ‘We will find the right place, my dear.’

They look at each other for a moment. Aziraphale is wearing a particularly nice set of ivory-coloured silk pyjamas. He _has _always been particular about his clothes: Crowley is probably the only person who regularly gets to see him wearing less than three layers, never mind like this, belly soft and exposed under the delicate fabric.

‘I’m a nitwit,’ says Crowley, with feeling.

‘Well, as luck would have it, I’m actually rather fond of nitwits.’

‘And I happen to be very fond of your stomach, for the record.’

‘Ah,’ says Aziraphale, smiling sleepily. ‘Sounds to me like we should form some sort of arrangement.’


	3. Chapter 3

‘It’s been a week,’ says Crowley, miserably.

‘No news is good news.’

‘No. _Good _news is good news. No news is just… torture.’

‘Crowley, dear. You used to work in Hell. You cannot possibly claim that you consider walking around a sculpture garden with me to be torture.’

Crowley raises his eyebrows, making an exaggeratedly doubtful face. _I’ll call your bluff_, thinks Aziraphale, confiscating Crowley’s cup of coffee to the nearest wall and steering him gently to a corner sheltered by a drooping old tree.

The pretence is dropped without much resistance.

All things considered, it’s encouraging that he made it this far through the day without mentioning the car. Not that Aziraphale would let on, but he’s been keeping his own ear attentively out for Crowley’s godawful ringtone since they woke up. Not a peep. Clearly, he has been telling himself, Martin is a man of focus and gravity. Martin is not a man who makes phone calls for nothing.

Still, Aziraphale hopes he finds a good reason to make one _quite _soon. Crowley is looking more and more subdued, and Aziraphale’s attempts at distraction – apart from the quick and easy kind, the kind that are not compatible with carrying a hot beverage – are getting less and less effective.

Once Crowley is reunited with his coffee, and they are standing contemplatively once again in front of an inexplicable wooden form on a pedestal, Aziraphale points out:

‘You have to admit, we could have had worse luck. Imagine if we’d ended up spending a week somewhere awful.’ He thoughtfully brushes some fragments of tree bark off the arm of his coat, and then says: ‘We could even come back here, you know.’

‘What, to remind ourselves of the happy day our car kicked the bucket?’

‘Oh, do stop trying to pronounce the time of death, Crowley. He hasn’t phoned you yet,’ Aziraphale reminds him.

Then he notices his mouth is doing something he isn’t expecting it to; and after a moment or two, when his brain finally catches up to what’s happening, it does the thing even more.

Crowley notices, too, and his face goes horribly suspicious.

‘What? What have I done wrong? What is it?’

‘Nothing.’

‘It’s definitely something. You’re smirking. I know a smirk when I see it, angel.’

Aziraphale clears his throat slightly.

‘_Whose _car, my dear?’

*

As it turns out, at some unspecified time after the third glass of whiskey, Lou had promised to invite Aziraphale and Crowley over for dinner before their escape from the area. Aziraphale sees to it that she keeps her word, and later that evening, they take a taxi up to her cottage in the hills.

‘Something smells _wonderful_,’ observes Aziraphale, as they take their coats off in the hallway.

‘Oh, don’t get excited. Just potatoes roasting. Nothing sophisticated.’

Aziraphale’s grin of anticipation is near-malevolent. Watching Lou wave a hand modestly, Crowley experiences a similar satisfaction to the one produced by hearing somebody complain their birthday has been forgotten, immediately before walking into a surprise party.

Once they’re all settled around the dining room table, the conversation lapses quickly into a very _worthy _literary discussion of Oscar Wilde. Crowley fidgets a little, drinking his wine too fast, eating too many crisps. Obviously, he’s read Wilde. He even has opinions about Wilde. Sometimes, his opinions about Wilde make Aziraphale laugh, loud and helpless, scandalised and fond. He doesn’t think he’d be getting that reaction during this conversation.

Enter Sappho, tenderly carrying a rubber toy in the shape of a Christmas pudding.

‘Oh, she wants someone to go and throw that,’ says Lou. ‘Don’t look into her eyes. She’s persuasive.’

A beautiful straw materialises before Crowley. He grasps at it.

‘I don’t mind being persuaded. Unless you two need me here?’

‘Please.’

He takes the dog out into the back garden, and lobs the highly unseasonal festive dessert across the grass several times. Sappho bounds about in ecstasies, eyes glowing with pride when she brings it back to him, jumping helplessly with excitement while waiting for it to be thrown again. Crowley finds himself lifted a little, the stupid Earthly simplicity of it. Fresh air, happy dog. He starts doing silly hops-on-the-spot himself, to wind her up as much as possible with anticipation before throwing it.

Then Sappho finds some interesting little smell to dig at, and abruptly forgets Crowley is even there.

Crowley sticks his hands in his pockets and thinks about going back in to join the conversation. Then he goes further into the garden, drawn irresistibly towards the mystery of Lou’s not-_exactly_-a-shed. He’s sort of hoping to find something fascinating and incriminating, like an obvious murder laboratory, but when he steps up to the windows and peers inside he sees nothing but an outdoor office. The interior is fully furnished, a little warmer and more sombre than the house is – the furniture is made of dark wood, there’s a scruffy rug laid out on the floor – but still relatively minimalist.

_Novelist’s bolthole_, he thinks. He tries the door handle. It’s not locked.

He sits in Lou’s chair and takes in the space. It smells faintly of cigarettes. She’s positioned herself with a peaceful view out over the fields; you can just about see a sliver of ocean, in one or two spots on the horizon.

The desk has a couple of framed pictures on it. One shows two kids, boy and girl, grinning and embracing each other on a sofa; the other a young man in delightfully dated fashion choices, sitting on a stone wall with a bicycle leaned up nearby. This is Lou’s brother, Crowley thinks, and he is either dead or in some other way beyond reach. He knows this, in the way you know things sometimes, even without the help of occult intuition.

He flips cursorily through the notebook that’s lying in the middle of the desk (never let it be said he’s become too well-behaved). Obviously it’s a journal of some kind, filled with fragments of text and feathery-handed sketches – no Da Vinci, that’s for sure, but the drawings have a kind of amateurish charm. On the most recent page there’s a passable likeness of two men on a couch.

_Strangers who turned up on my doorstep_, says the handwriting beneath. _Very strange strangers. Frighteningly clueless, for grown men. And rude, but they pull it off. One of them is named after an angel. The dog seems to have decided they’re kind._

He feels himself begin to smile.

When he does go back into the house, lungs still easy with rural air, the conversation seems easier to slip his way into.

*

Reports of Lou’s liquor collection were not exaggerated, and they’re in something of an embarrassing state by the time they leave. Aziraphale is further gone than Crowley, and the last drink doesn’t even kick in until they’re in the taxi. That sends him right over the edge. He will not stop talking to the driver, who looks increasingly distressed as the journey goes on, and Crowley needs to remind him several times not to wake up all the other guests at the inn. Once he has been safely guided back into their room, Crowley assumes he can leave him to his own devices while cleaning his face and teeth, only to eventually hear a resigned:

‘Oh, bugger.’

Poking his head out of the bathroom, he discovers that this is the sound of Aziraphale admitting defeat in the face of his tie, which is somehow now done up in an even tighter knot than it was before he started trying to take it off. Crowley comes over and helpfully takes charge of the operation, although progress only becomes marginally smoother as a result.

‘Do you know,’ says the former angel, sounding terribly wounded, ‘after I bought this tie, the owner of the place put it down to half-price the very next day? All that small talk and he never breathed a word to me.’

‘Stop talking.’

‘I’m just saying. I was a very loyal customer to him. If he’d have told me I’d – ’

‘Shut up.’

‘Oh dear. Perhaps we should sober up.’

‘Complete bloody disaster. Human, remember? For the last three years?’ He finally succeeds in unpicking the Houdini-esque knot, pulls the tie out of the collar and chucks it on the floor. ‘I saw this meme the other day on Twitter – ’

‘You saw what?’

‘ – about trying to get your drunk friend home after a night out – ’

‘Darling. Darling. What did you say?’

‘ – about drunk people. It was this gif of two astronauts and one of them’s on a lead – ’

‘On a _lead_?’

‘ – and he can’t walk straight. That’s you.’

Aziraphale starts inexplicably stroking Crowley’s cheek with a fingertip, and says, in a heartfelt way:

‘What’s a meme?’

‘I need you to know that your computer can be used for recreational purposes.’

‘I do know that. I play the pinball game on it.’

‘You will _definitely_ regret admitting that to me.’

He smiles beatifically, and doesn’t reply. They’re standing very close to one another. This feels like enough.

Aziraphale’s index finger continues to explore Crowley’s face, lingering in odd places, on his forehead, beneath his eyes. As if tracing and re-tracing certain lines. It takes a minute or two for Crowley to realise exactly what he’s doing.

‘Excuse me. Don’t think I can’t tell when you’re stroking my wrinkles.’

‘So what?’ says Aziraphale, not stopping. ‘I like them.’

‘Don’t be weird.’

‘I’m not. This one – ’ he delicately follows the line from Crowley’s nose to the corner of his mouth ‘ – especially. Right where you smile. It’s like you’re storing them all up.’

‘_Shut_ it,’ says Crowley, kissing him just to make sure he does.

*

There are many things about consuming alcohol while human that Aziraphale finds to be frustrating. Hangover breakfasts, however, are not one of them. He wasn’t aware there was anything about a poached egg that could be _more _satisfying, but there’s something about the way the creamy yolk instantaneously transmits comfort to sore neurons that really feels beyond miraculous. It helps, of course, when they are poached to such perfection as this one. Really quite impressive, for a remote little local inn. He must tell their waitress to pass on his compliments to the kitchen staff.

‘We’re not getting rid of that one now, are we?’ asks Crowley, between visibly grateful mouthfuls of hash brown. He looks ever so endearing when hungry.

‘What one, my sweet?’ (Aziraphale can’t help noticing his voice sounds rather hoarse. How odd.)

‘Lou. You’ve added her to your collection.’

Aziraphale puts his head on one side.

‘Seeing as we’re all humans here,’ he says reproachfully, ‘I think the appropriate term is _making friends_.’

‘Don’t act innocent. I know your type. Soho booksellers. Predators, the bloody lot.’

‘Do you really take her for the type to get predated upon?’

‘No. That’s true. Actually, if I were you, I’d watch myself. Any funny business, _she’ll _kill _you_.’

On the table between them, Crowley’s phone starts vibrating noisily with an incoming call.

They both freeze over their food, staring down at it.

‘Well,’ says Crowley, after a moment. ‘I’ll go and see who that is.’

He picks it up and goes out the front door of the pub rather slowly.

_I forgot for a moment_, thinks Aziraphale. _That we’re not supposed to still be here. Forgot we were waiting to hear about the car. I wonder if Crowley did, too?_

The wait seems worryingly long. Aziraphale can’t find a way to fill the time, apart from shuffling his feet nervously. Even the egg doesn’t taste quite as good as it did.

Then Crowley’s coming back in with the proper bounce in his step, and grinning ear to ear.

‘It was Martin. Says the last part he needs has arrived, and he’s 99.9% confident he can have her up and running by the end of tomorrow.’

‘Oh, that’s the best of news!’

Aziraphale gets out of his seat, beaming, and kisses Crowley on the back of the hand. And then on the lips.

‘It’ll be our last day here, then,’ he says. ‘What shall we do?’

‘Dunno. Weather’s looking nice. We should go for a walk, maybe.’

‘Yes, that’s a nice idea. Enjoy the sea views one more time.’

*

The sea views are indeed lovely, but Crowley has a problem on the walk, and this problem is that Aziraphale has been promised seals.

He was promised them by a fellow walker, down by the first stile they crossed, pointing and beaming and claiming _there’s seals on the beach in that direction. _And since then he has been bloody-minded. Aziraphale has been promised seals; and by golly, he’s going to get them. Every ten seconds that passes is another excuse to stroll cavalierly off the path towards the precipice, inveterate city-dweller that he is, and crane his neck over the edge of the white cliffs to look down at the beach.

‘Aha!’ he cries at last, throwing his hands up slightly. ‘There they are! Oh, look. They’re sweet. Come and see, Crowley.’

He takes another few steps forward and beckons, without looking round.

‘I can see them from here,’ Crowley says.

‘No, you can’t. Look! They’ve got pups!’

‘Come away from the edge a bit, angel.’

Aziraphale throws a teasing glance over his shoulder.

‘I’m nowhere near the edge.’

‘Yes you are. Ground might be unstable. There’s signs.’

‘Signs?’ he repeats, spinning on his heel. Marine wildlife forgotten in an instant, he starts advancing on his not-husband with mischievous fire in his eyes. ‘Am I hearing this correctly, Anthony Crowley? You want me to obey a sign? With an instruction on it?’

‘It’s a real cliff!’

‘And you’re a real _softie_.’

He’s put himself within reach, and Crowley takes the opportunity to catch him, sliding his arms inside Aziraphale’s open coat. Just in case he decides to go back over there.

‘Not as soft as you,’ he says, burying his face in a jumper that smells vaguely of his own washing powder.

‘Don’t change the subject.’

‘I don’t care. Retired from demoning. Don’t want you to fall.’

‘They only put those signs up to deter idiots.’

Crowley lifts his face from Aziraphale’s jumper, and grins.

‘Well. Case rested.’

He gets thwacked gently round the head for that one.

_See? _Crowley tells himself, as they carry on walking hand in hand. _Cliff’s solid. Car’s fixed. No bad omens. Stop imagining things._

*

It’s eleven the next morning, and Aziraphale isn’t looking very happy, despite being serenaded with the incomparably lovely music of a functioning Bentley engine.

‘I didn’t think our honeymoon fund would be going on _that_.’

‘Worth every penny,’ says Crowley, reaching forward and giving the dashboard an affectionate pat.

‘Well. We might be able to reschedule for later in the year, I suppose. I’ll see if I can persuade Mr Ericson to finally buy those Goethe volumes he’s been salivating over.’

‘Good plan.’

Aziraphale reaches into the glove compartment, flips idly between a few discs. They had to check out of the inn before picking up the car, so their luggage is already packed up in the back, and they’re passing through the village one last time before hitting the road home.

He selects some Bach, slides it into the CD player. Then sits up a little when he looks back out of the windscreen.

‘Oh, stop here by the bakery a moment,’ he says. ‘I want to get some of that marvellous bread to take home with us.’

Obligingly, Crowley pulls over and switches off the engine.

Aziraphale disappears into the little family-owned bakery for several minutes, and re-emerges clutching an oversized paper bag that cannot possibly contain only bread.

‘I hope you left something in there for the locals,’ remarks Crowley, as he opens the door and takes his seat again.

Aziraphale tuts wordlessly, puts the paper bag by his feet, and fastens his seatbelt.

‘Ready to go now?’ Crowley asks.

‘Yes, all set.’

‘Right, then. Goodbye South Downs, hello London.’

He turns the key in the ignition.

The Bentley makes a weary and protracted noise of dissent, and fails to start.

There’s a pause, in which neither the former angel nor the former demon attempts to make eye contact with the other.

‘Give it thirty seconds,’ says Aziraphale.

Crowley does.

The same thing happens again.

For another thirty seconds, there’s absolute silence. Pin-drop.

Then Aziraphale says:

‘Do you know something?’

‘What?’

‘I quite like this village.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title lifted gently from its context in Joanna Newsom's Occident, a lovely song about a slow-heart ready for the long-life to show its face. Listen here, if you like: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLWDkapFaHI
> 
> Thank you very much to people who have followed/left kudos! These iterations of our boys (and Lou) will hopefully be back for more, so there's a series now. 
> 
> My conscience tells me seals don't frequent the south coast of this country, but my poetic licence says it's fantasy world-building.


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